2026-08-07.
To my books, but little done. Captain Tullus Lazario is dead; I had his name into this book not a week past. Worse than dead: what stood up in him after was a demon, and the four fought it the length of the evening. My accounts of it agree. The half-orc raged in a fashion his fellows had not seen in him before, Drusca answered with his fists over and over, the priest laid a command on the thing and then simply beat it with a club, and Falk worked the edges with her thin sword. They have a horn off it. I found no one who would put a price on the horn, and I did not press.
Every witness I paid agrees, to the very word, that something spoke through the fight which was neither the captain nor the demon: God is coming. It is the final day. God weeps. You are His beloved. So He must kill you. I have read it back more times than I will own to.
The evening before, the whole camp saw a knot of lights hanging some thirty feet up, turning on itself. The half-orc called it an inevitable, a creature of law, no demon at all, and said it was bringing emotions. Nobody I asked could tell me what it is to bring emotions.
Grain in the camp trades at peace prices still. I do not look for that to last. And so to bed, though late.